Keep Your Skirt On, Big Man
by phattrash
Summary: Yeah, yeah, yeah, Sammy turns into a hot girl, the Winchester bros try to figure out whodunit, Sam has a hormonal crisis: you know the drill. No Wincest, slash, or sex involved; just sw33t brother bondin' and a smattering of mildly off-color jokes. Girl!Sam and Protective!/Sassy!Dean.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**_  
_

_Shit, put that light out._ Sam sluggishly stuffed his fists against his eyes, attempting to block out the hideous glow that sent a splash of pain bouncing around the cavern of his skull. He cracked open his lips, chapped and dry as the Sahara, and groaned, "mmhDean? Y'there?"

Ugh, what died in his mouth last night?_ Last night_. Oh, god. Vague pieces of iconic memory floated to the peak of his consciousness: bar fight, tipsy women, the neon blur of taillights, the cracked pavement whirring beneath his feet. Sam picked himself off the couch- when had he even returned to the motel?- and hissed at the aching swell that the action caused in his brain.

_Bzzst._ The ray of early morning light peeking through the window gouged through Sam's eyeballs. He stumbled over to the window and swished the curtains shut, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Good. He then proceeded to flounder his way over to the bathroom, tripping over every damn piece of furniture in the place as he went. Freakin' alcohol. Never again would Sam drink more than two beers in one sitting. To hell with Dean's "celebratory measures". What reason did they have to celebrate, anyway? Killing a shtriga wasn't exactly a mind-boggling accomplishment. They did gain a teensy victory in that there were no (juvenile) casualties this time around, but Sam was sure Dean had just wanted an opportunity to get stone-cold drunk.

"Screw you, ash'ole", Sam mumbled at his feet, his tongue sliding around his mouth with all the delicacy of a block of lead. He stuck his arm into the gloomy hollow of what he thought was the bathroom doorway, and after a bit of fiddling and swearing, he entered the dank space. Some fanfare and confetti would be well-deserved.

He could barely just make out his reflection in the mirror, and what he could see of himself wasn't pretty. Looked like death warmed over: sweaty hair, puffy eyelids, sallow cheeks- the works. And he was shirtless, for whatever reason. Not his typical sleepwear. As Sam was blearily rubbing water over his face, he heard the tell-tale sounds of Dean's primitive morning routine. "G'na kill 'im", he mumbled under his breath. He closed the tap and made as if to exit the bathroom, but something about his obscure reflection caught his eye. He redirected his focus at the mirror, and- _what the hell?_ Sam quickly flipped the light switch, squinted painfully as his pupils adjusted, and stared. A girl with effulgent eyes and terrific tits stared back at him. Um.

He lifted his arm in a daze, meaning to reach out and touch her, affirm her physical presence or whatever. (Yeah, it was stupid. But he felt so screwed in the head at the moment that he didn't want to take any chances.) His hand connected with cool glass. _Her_ hand connected with cool glass. Sam gulped nervously, dread beginning to seep into the pit of his stomach. He tilted his head and frowned. She tilted and frowned in perfect unison. Wait, wait, WAIT.

Sam's foggy brain set into brisk activity, trying to come up with any semi-logical explanation for this bare-breasted glass girl. _Spiritual portal, befuddled ghost, haunted mirror, shadow mist,_ light distortion... Hey, anything was acceptable. Anything, of course, besides the most glaringly obvious conclusion, which was that Sam had mysteriously metamorphosed into a babe. No way, right? Sam forced the idea out of his mind with a grimace (noting that the chick in the mirror reciprocated the motion flawlessly) and tried to reason with himself.

What reason would anything have for endowing humble Sammy Winchester with a pair of hooters? Yes, he'd defiled a few graves in his time, staked a couple tricksters, shot some witches...but it wasn't like he'd run over some lady's cat or anything; he did his sanguine best to stay on the good (operatively-speaking) side of whatever beings-human or otherwise-he and Dean came across. So yeah, it was most likely a simple case of Haunted Bathroom Mirror. The door swung open, then, and his older brother walked in, toothbrush in place. "Sam, know where I put the, uh..." Dean trailed off, his red-rimmed eyes pointed squarely at Sam's upper torso. _What?_ Sam groaned inwardly and finally chanced to look down at what he'd been subconsciously avoiding since Ghost Girl had flitted across his periphery: his own body. Damn._ I have boobs._


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Gomenasai for the undiluted crappiness of this chapter. Next chapter will be better, I promise.**

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_My life has officially gone down the toilet. Like, it's always been full of shit, but this...this shit's busted through the sewage main._ Sam crinkled his nose in disgust. Evidently his go-to coping mechanism for freaky switcheroos came in the form of awful word play. Dean cleared his throat, causing Sam to flinch. "Whew. That was _some_ party, am I right?" Dean had wiped the initial look of surprise off his face, and had left the doorway to rifle through the medicine cabinets nonchalantly.

Sam was at an utter loss for words. How do you best explain to your older brother in a clear and concise manner that the half-naked girl he was checking out was, in fact, the gassy kid with whom he had slaughtered many a creepy undead thing for most of his life? Now _there_ was a juicy subject for one of those dumb instructive pamphlets. Dean turned to face Sam and cocked an eyebrow in a somewhat ardent manner. "You know, you look sorta familiar. Did we have a little fun last night, you and me?" Sam shuddered and finally took it upon himself to get those pansy lips of his moving. "_Gross_, Dean. C'mon, don't you recognize me?" Even as he said it, he winced at the fluttery, girlish drawl that his once-baritone (or so he liked to believe) voice had transformed into. Yeah, he was making a hell of a case for himself here.

Dean gave Sam another appraising look, his sleep-ravaged eyes lingering a little too long for comfort. "Nah, can't say that I do." He cracked a grin, toothbrush still dangling from his lips. "Tell ya what, though. Maybe some good ol' _muscle memory_ will bring it aaall back." At this, he spat his toothbrush into the sink and took a step forward. Before Sam's disoriented brain could work out what was happening, Dean had clasped his warm hands over Sam's shoulders- "wha?"- and was pulling Sam close, his mouth going for the soft skin of- YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. Sam recoiled and thrust his fists at his brother's face, putting as much pent-up force into it as he could. Dean's head snapped back and he crumpled to the bathroom floor unceremoniously. "AUGH! Not the face, you BITCH."

Sam bit his lip and flailed his too-light arms uselessly. "Geez, man, I'm sorry. Can I- did we remember the first aid kit?" Dean felt his nose gingerly, a trickle of blood welling up around his fingers. "Dammit, a simple 'no' would've done the trick." Sam grimaced and occupied himself with holding up his boxers, which he realized were dipping dangerously below his waist. His thin, toned, sexy waist. Jesus. Happy thoughts, Sam. "Um, Dean? Anything...uh...broken?" Dean looked up at Sam. "Lucky for you, no. Just hand me a towel or something, would ya? Crazy broad." Dean mashed his hands into his temples and frowned. "I've got the shittiest headache, like, I have _no idea_ what I did last night. So forgive me if your royal tenderness doesn't register with my brain right now."

Sam stuck his hands into his hairless armpits and rocked on the balls (_balls...if only_) of his feet. "Dean, it's _me_, Sam. Your incredibly smart and attractive younger brother. Ring a bell?" But that sentence, stated in a feminine voice redolent of honey and chirping bluebirds, sounded so odd that even Sam was tempted to snicker incredulously. Dean, whose rear was still planted firmly on the tiled floor, squinted and chewed his bottom lip. "Hell, is this some kind of sick dream I'm having? I must've been hitting it really hard." Sam groaned with frustration and flung his pale little arms out. "Is it so hard to believe, considering our line of work? Stranger things've happened!"

Dean pinched his left arm experimentally. "Point taken...hey, give me a hand, huh?" Sam grabbed Dean's extended arm with one delicate hand and lazily tugged, expecting his brother to pop up with ease. Nope. Instead, a quick little zigzag of pain went shooting up the length of his arm. "Guh. What the-" Dean's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "You waste all your energy trying to destroy my gorgeous face?" Sam frowned for about the tenth time that morning, staring at his stick-thin arms critically. Fabulous. He'd been reduced to a fragile waif. He gritted his teeth and used both arms to pull his older brother off the ground, straining until Dean finally rose to his full height. Oh. Another great new establishment. Dean towered over Sam, at least a full head taller. Not cool. Dean leaned down a bit, his eyes boring tunnels through Sam's shiny new face, and nodded self-importantly. "Now that you mention it, I can see the resemblance. Sam always was one makeover away from womanhood, anyway."

Sam rolled his eyes at this totally gratuitous and inaccurate jab and delivered a weak punch to Dean's shoulder. "Will you cut the mindless crap and take me seriously, already? Your brother's practically having a sexual identity crisis and all you do is dick around." Dean stifled a giant yawn and hunched his shoulders casually. "Right, right." He fell silent for half a minute, during which Sam examined the floor like a shy schoolgirl, and then he uttered a single word. "...Bitch." Sam looked up at Dean, his mouth quirking into a hesitant smile. "...Jerk." Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"Holy- it's really you in there, Sammy?"


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Sorry for how short this chapter is; I just wanted to update with what little I had done. Hope it doesn't disappoint ****_too _****much. **

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"Um, _yeah_ it's me. Gold star for you, Dean! You figured it out!"

"Shut up."

Dean scrutinized Sam and his cute new bod wonderingly. "But...how could- why...?" Sam shrugged and heaved a gusty sigh. "Not a clue. I'll have to consult the internet. Though I'm guessing digging through the search results of something like 'Help, I sprouted hooters overnight' isn't exactly going to be a cakewalk." Dean shook his head with disbelief. "This is, wow, this is pretty damn weird...even for us."

_You're telling me._

"Y'know, you might wanna put that glistening pair of yours away, dude, or I might have a little accident." Sam's brow crinkled with arbitrary confusion, and his eyes instinctively flicked to his nether regions, before he realized what his older brother was referring to. This was just all sorts of repulsive. Sam gave an odd little grunt of disgust and slowly reached his hands up to cover his...breasts. Dear god, this was so not the time for gender confusion. He glared at Dean menacingly, though he had the sneaking suspicion his milk-curdling bitchfaces might be less effective now that they were emanating from a soft-faced little croquette of a woman. Wait. Now he sounded like a lecherous old fogey...the type of washed-out, balding suit who devoured tacky pornos in dingy public bathrooms. Fan-freakin'-tastic.

"Come _on_," Sam blurted irritably, resisting the urge to stamp his foot. He was already a vixen and a middle-aged pervert; he didn't need to add 'little girl' to his repertoire. Dean shrugged and yawned, grin never leaving his face. "Hey, I can't control my roaring waves of testosterone, Samantha." Sam pouted- _pouted?_- and immediately tried to recompose his neoteric features into what he hoped was a manly glower. The look was probably more aptly termed "constipated boob", however, because Dean just snorted and tossed his brother-turned-sister a towel. "I'll give you some time alone with the new hardware. Maybe freshen up, unless you wanna rock Eau De Dead Goat for the next couple of hours."

Sam clutched the towel to his- do NOT call it a 'bosom', you twat- ample chest and flipped Dean the bird. "If I catch you peeking in here, I'll kick your ass to hell and back." Dean laughed as he- FINALLY- escorted himself out of the bathroom, shooting back, "I'd love to see you try it with those slender legs of yours,_ babe_." Sam smirked wearily, caught between amusement and bemusement. He shut the door, making sure to lock it (something he hadn't done since he was ten and jealous of teen Dean's superior manhood) and sidled up to the mirror once more. Man. Smaller build, cutesy button nose, and pouty lips that almost resembled Dean's...in a dainty, painted teacup sort of way. And woah, Sammy, let's not forget about the special goods.

Sam shot a furtive glance at the door behind him, just in case Dean had suddenly developed weird ethereal abilities or something, and slid off his drooping boxers. Jesus. It'd been too long. Too long since he'd intimately touched an actual, flesh and blood woman. Not since...he sucked in a sharp intake of breath and redirected his wandering thoughts to the task at hand. He turned the shower on to mask any...accidental...noises he might make (God knows he would never hear the end of it from Dean, especially considering the change to his vocals) and_ hell yes, let's make the best of this unfortunate development_. Ignoring the infantile blush rising to his cheeks (which made this new face he'd been saddled with look disgustingly cute..._file away for future reference_) and the ever-present geek voice in his head telling him what an immature, chauvinistic pissant he was being, he cupped her- his-_ his breasts _and played around with them some. He was actually getting turned on by her- HIS- own body. Unbelievable. Sam glanced at his reflection, noting the flushed face; the hitched breathing; and the tangled eyelashes, and sighed (a sound that brought to mind one of those breathy damsels-in-distress that fawned all over Dean come the termination of a hunt). Sam stepped into the shower and shut his eyes. _Mom, I've become a pornstar._


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Warning- Implausible nonsense ahead. **

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An hour later, he and Dean were sitting in a ratty old diner, clasping mugs of coffee, ruminating in awkward silence. The caffeine-induced chatter of the customers around them did little to mask the strange tension that glued the siblings' mouths shut. Sam tapped a clean, pampered fingernail against the side of his mug, staring intently at these stranger's hands: soft, unblemished by fading scars and ingrained dirt and knuckle hairs. Dean took a sudden gulp of his coffee and spoke around the mug, shattering the bubble of unwelcome inactivity. "So. Got any theories, geek boy?"

Sam felt a small thrill of relief at the familiar nickname. He blew a wayward strand of too-long hair out of his mouth and replied, "Well, uh, I haven't gotten to seriously delve into this mess yet, but the whole thing kinda brings to mind the concept of sequential hermaphroditism." "Mmm. In English, prof?"

Sam began to gesture animatedly with his hands as he spoke. "See, in the animal kingdom, sudden sex change isn't abnormal at all. Fish and gastropods, especially, transform into the opposite sex usually over the course of a lifetime in order to facilitate reproductive success...y'know: getting to use both sets of genitals really amps up your DNA distribution process. Anyway, when something that was originally male becomes a female, it's called 'protandry'. Of course, seeing as this biological happenstance mostly takes place with clownfish or frogs, I can't apply it to my...situation. Research does show that external chemicals might have a hand in the abrupt sex changes of organisms, but again, not really involving humans. This is all purely scientific: no ectoplasm or sulfur in sight, but I thought that maybe I could vaguely cross-reference some..."

Dean's eyelids drooped and he set his mug down with a resounding _thunk_. He cut Sam off mid-ramble, mimicking a loud snore. "So basically, you're saying you don't have a clue what we're dealing with?" Sam nodded sheepishly, bringing his hands back into his lap. "Great. You can do your whole nerd-arousal bit later, when we hit the library." He drained the last of his coffee and fingered his amulet thoughtfully. "First, we should- " Before he could continue his statement, a rather large hand made an appearance on Sam's flannel-encased shoulder. Sam twitched with surprise, and warily cast his eyes up to the owner of the hairy mitt.

Young guy, maybe in his late twenties. Dirty clothes, tall stature, mildly attractive. Sam cleared his throat. A high-pitched "Um" was all he managed to get out, but what he really meant was, "kindly remove your greasy paw from my shoulder, dillweed". _Ever the gentleman, even when my man parts have been compromised._ The Hand spoke up, interrupting Sam's private self-praise session. "I couldn't help but notice you from across the diner. Even this terrible lighting did nothing but wonders for your beautiful visage." A muscle throbbed in Sam's jaw. Dean, who was currently working his way through Sam's untouched coffee, choked back a laugh. Sam shot him a withering glare, which seemed to prompt further mirth; he was now clasping a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt at mock seriousness.

"What say I serenade you with an improvised ballad, mamacita?" Lord almighty, was this joker for real? Sam didn't know whether he wanted to pat the poor bastard on the back good-naturedly or grind him into molecular dust. In the meantime, Dean's face was turning purple. He gave Sam an exaggerated thumbs up. Sam kicked him under the table. "No need for petty words, darling flower. Let my passionate melodies speak for us both." With this, the guy pulled a harmonica out of his pocket. _Not happening_. Sam interjected rapidly, "Uh, listen, man- you got a name?" Harmonica Boy looked pleased. "Connor. But you may dub me 'Conn', for I intend to steer the vast ship that is my torrid desire directly into your heart." He clutched at his chest dramatically, really getting into it. Sam massaged the bridge of his stupid button nose and composed a presentable spiel in about ten seconds.

"Connor. Right. See, the thing is, my big brother here is a really overprotective guy. Doesn't let a single man within two feet of me." Sam turned to the overly flippant Dean and spoke through his teeth. "Isn't that _right_?" Dean held up a hand and grinned unconvincingly. "Sorry, Casanova. Maybe you should try your luck with Bottle Blonde and Better-Than-Botox over there." He jerked a thumb at a table a little ways away from them, where two gaudy-looking older women were bitching at a waiter about the color of their pancakes or something. A petulant look crossed Connor's face. "You think I'm joking around, funny guy?" Sam tensed. Once again, Dean had managed to open his fat mouth and pave the way to annoying confrontation. A+, dude. Connor continued, his voice rising steadily, "My pure feelings have been bluntly trampled upon! Now, only the gentle touch of a female can quell my outrage!" He abruptly pulled Sam into his embrace. Who needed _this_ bullshit? No wonder good-looking girls were so catty all the time.

Sam was trying to figure out a polite way of telling this wackjob to shove off, when he felt the guy's right hand groping for his...birth cannon. (Christ, he sounded like a seven-year-old who'd just had a lesson on the miracle of childbirth.) Sam's eyes widened and he struggled in Connor's viselike grip. Ugh, apparently fem-Sam lacked the muscle strength needed to overpower a weedy, bookish dope. Just when Connor's fingers were about to acquaint themselves with Sam's hot pocket (_I'm absolutely incorrigible_), Dean forcibly pulled him away from Sam. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow your roll, don juan. Let's not get touchy-feely." Connor huffed indignantly and seemed on the verge of a protest, but his resolve visibly crumbled under the full force of Dean's angry eyes. Connor stuffed his fists into the pockets of his worn blazer and shuffled away, muttering unhappily to himself. Sam straightened and scratched his head with growing embarrassment. 'What'd I do to deserve this?' He peeked at Dean, readying himself for a torrent of bad jokes at his expense. Instead of a mocking smile, however, it was a troubled frown that creased Dean's features.

Sam coughed uncertainly. "Er...dude...? You can let go of my arm now." Dean blinked as if he just realized that he was still gripping his brother's forearm, but didn't do anything to loosen his hold. He poked Sam's ankle with his shoe and spoke, his voice low and rough. "How about we bail the hell out of here before that choice ass of yours calls one of these other dumbshits over." Sam scowled, noticing that many of the seated customers were gawking at them, presumably enjoying the bit of breakfast entertainment Connor had so gallantly provided them with. Uncultured twits. Dean raised his eyebrows at them scornfully. "Nothing to see here, people. Eat your goddamn eggs." He then pulled Sam out the door, walking at a rather brisk pace. Sam had to scurry along behind him because his stunted legs had trouble keeping up. "H-hey, Dean. Hold o- stop for a second!" Dean halted, a foot away from the pitiably small crosswalk that separated their particular motel from the hodgepodge collection of buildings that was the downtown area. "What?"


End file.
